There are those tuned for doing good

trained to lift spirits

dissolve moods

the rare birds.

 

She is one,

Becky the masseur

two doors down

bungalow bound

hemmed in by duty

and pressured love.

 

    My face is pressed down into the hole

    all her weight on me

    trust blending with thrust

    Mademoiselle masseur

 

    tight as a serpent's wish

    coiled around a skeleton

    in my favourite cupboard.